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was reddening in the sun. He wondered how, with his fair skin, Geoff had coped in Africa all that time. ‘Yes,’ David agreed, ‘it
is.’
    ‘Fast.’
    David said, ‘A lot of people are being killed on both sides. Strikers. Soldiers. Policemen. It’s getting worse.’
    ‘Churchill said we had to “set Britain ablaze” after the last election was rigged.’
    ‘Is he still alive?’ David asked. ‘I know there used be to be illicit recordings circulating of him urging us to resist, but nobody’s heard of those for a while.
He’s getting on for eighty now. His wife Clementine’s gone, they found her dead from pneumonia in that stately home in Lancashire last year. Life on the run, for old people like
that?’ He shook his head. ‘His son Randolph’s a collaborator, been on TV supporting the government. And if Churchill’s dead, who’s in power in the Resistance now? The
Communists?’
    Jackson gave David a long, appraising look. ‘Churchill is alive,’ he said, quietly. ‘And the Resistance goes a great deal wider than the Communist Party.’ He gave a slow
nod, then looked at his watch and said, suddenly, ‘Well, shall we walk back towards the station? My wife’s expecting me home. One of her family get-togethers.’ And David realized
that wherever Jackson was thinking of leading him, he wasn’t going to go there just yet.
    On the walk back to the station Jackson talked genially about cricket and rugger; he had been in the school XV at Eton. When they parted he shook David’s hand, bestowed a
rubicund smile, and walked away. In a rare gesture, Geoff squeezed David’s arm. ‘He liked you,’ he said quietly.
    ‘What’s this about, Geoff? Why did you tell him so much about me?’
    ‘I thought you might be interested in joining us.’
    ‘To do what?’
    ‘Perhaps in time – help us.’ Geoff smiled his quick, anxious smile. ‘But it’s up to you, David. The decision would have to come from you.’
    From the kitchen, David could hear Sarah doing the washing-up, banging plates angrily on the draining board. He turned away from the staircase. Right from the beginning, from
that first meeting with Jackson on Hampstead Heath, her safety had been his biggest worry. A wife, his handlers had told him later, could be told what her husband was doing only if she were totally
committed as well. And although Sarah detested the government, her pacifism meant she couldn’t support the Resistance, not after the bombings and shooting of policemen started. And ever since
then David had felt resentment towards her, blamed her for the intolerable burden of yet another secret.

Chapter Three
    T HE FOLLOWING S UNDAY Sarah went into town to meet Irene and go to the pictures. They had spoken on the telephone during the
week, and discussed what had happened on Remembrance Sunday. There had still been nothing about it on the news; it was as though the attack on Rommel and the arrests had never happened.
    They went to the Gaumont in Leicester Square to see the new Marilyn Monroe comedy from America. Before the big feature the B film was the usual frothy German musical, and between the films they
had to sit through one of the government-commissioned Pathé newsreels. The lights always came up then, to discourage Resistance supporters from booing if any Nazi leaders came on. First came
a report of a European eugenics conference in Berlin: Marie Stopes talking with German doctors in a pillared hall. The next item was a vision of hell: a snow-covered landscape, an old woman swathed
in ragged clothes weeping and shouting in Russian outside the smoking ruins of a hut, a German soldier in helmet and greatcoat trying to comfort her. Bob Danvers-Walker’s voice turned stern:
‘In Russia, the war against communism continues. Soviet terrorists continue to commit fearful atrocities not just against Germans but against their own people. Outside Kazan a cowardly group
of so-called partisans, skulking safely in the